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by Thomas
Canfield
The two parties stood on opposite sides of a stone
obelisk that marked a local territorial boundary. They examined
one another with open curiosity. Outside of Darwin, the linguist,
none of the Earthmen had ever dealt with Diatoms before. They were
in a remote corner of the star cluster and contacts with them had
been few. Van Buren believed his was the first expedition of any
real scope to pay them a visit. Previous missions had all been strictly
scientific in nature.
“All right, Darwin,” Van Buren turned
to the linguist, “let’s get the ball rolling here. Is
there any sort of ceremonial greeting or ritual we have to go through?”
“It doesn’t appear so.” Darwin
shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently the Diatoms don’t
go in for such things.”
“Good,” Van Buren exclaimed. That
was a relief. He had been on other expeditions where three-quarters
of the time was wasted indulging the natives in some fool ritual
or other. It was a good sign that the Diatoms didn’t go in
for such nonsense. Van Buren examined the aliens without appearing
to do so. They were squat, gnome-like creatures, heavy-boned and
slow in their movements. Their skin had a peculiar marbled quality
to it, blue and pale grey. They were ugly, certainly, but not aggressively
so.
“Which one is in charge?” Van Buren
said to the linguist. “Who’s the one we’re dealing
with?”
“That one, with the pattern of red dye on
his face.” Darwin nodded discreetly. “The dye represents
a symbol of his authority. The others are bound by some form of
allegiance. I haven’t wholly figured out their social system
as yet. But he’s the one running the show, no doubt about
that.”
Van Buren nodded. This was another favorable development.
He had dealt with other alien cultures where nobody was in charge,
where a kind of socialist equality pervaded the entire society:
every individual was every other individual’s equal. It was
impossible to get anything done in such a case. The natives would
debate endlessly and the more they debated the further any chances
of reaching a decision receded into the distance.
“O.K. Tell him . . .” Van Buren paused,
looked at the Diatom. “What is his name by the way?”
The linguist addressed a question to the head Diatom in the harsh,
guttural tongue of the natives. “As far as I can make out,”
Darwin pursed his lips, “an approximate English rendering
would be Ibid.”
“Ibid?” Van Buren repeated doubtfully.
“You’re sure?”
“As I said,” the linguist gave a small,
tight smile, “that would be an approximate rendering. The
correlation between the two tongues is not at all exact.”
Van Buren made a face. “Ibid, then. Tell
Ibid that we come in peace and that we hope to discover whether
there might be some sort of goods they would be interested in trading.
Tell him that we have many useful and intriguing items which they
could not get or manufacture for themselves. We can arrange to extend
a line of credit initially to help with any purchases, if they so
desire. Of course, our sole intent in any transaction is to establish
a relationship that would mutually benefit both parties,”
Van Buren added.
“Of course,” Darwin repeated, his
face studiously blank. He turned to the Diatom, translated. The
Diatom scowled. He scratched his ear then spat out a quick stream
of guttural noises that sounded like abuse.
“The Diatom wishes to know,” Darwin
translated, “what exactly a line of credit consists of.”
Van Buren smiled. One of the principal objects
of the initial negotiations was to discover just how financially
astute members of the alien culture were. Those who were not well
versed in the intricacies of finance, well, he would undertake to
guide and instruct them. Naturally, in the exercise of this office,
certain advantages would accrue to him.
“A line of credit means that you could purchase
an item without paying for it up front,” Van Buren explained.
“The money would be repaid over a certain period of time,
to be worked out in advance. Of course, interest would accumulate
on that part of it still due and payable. In effect, we are loaning
you the money.”
The Diatom barked something short and sharp. “Explain interest,”
Darwin translated.
Van Buren frowned. “That’s exactly
how he said it – explain interest, like that?” Darwin
nodded. “Is he attempting to be rude?”
“I think that is simply the Diatom’s
style,” the linguist suggested. “Blunt and direct. I
wouldn’t attempt to read anything into it. Some peoples rely
on circumlocution and subterfuge.” The linguist’s expression
was now laced with irony. “Others don’t. The Diatoms
apparently believe in saying just what they mean, without dressing
it up for effect. I think we’ll have to take them as they
are.”
Van Buren shrugged. He turned to the Diatom. “Interest,”
he said and paused, considering, “interest is the cost assessed
for a service. In this case, a loan extended to a borrower. In technical
terms it could be defined as the time value of money, projected
into the future.” Van Buren smiled at the Diatom pleasantly.
“It is a fairly simple concept, really.”
The Diatom said something in a low tone. Van Buren
turned to the linguist.
“Uh, the Diatom says why would you go to
all this trouble . . .” Darwin paused, shook his head. “No,
trouble doesn’t really capture the essence of what he said.
The word he used has much stronger overtones. There are certain
scatological implications.” Darwin ran his fingers through
his hair. “I’m afraid there isn’t an English equivalent.”
“Yes, yes,” Van Buren brushed this
aside, “just give me the gist of what he said. I don’t
need an exact translation.”
“He says, why go to this kind of trouble
to complete a simple transaction.”
Van Buren turned to the Diatom, speaking eagerly.
“It would be totally wrong to regard this as trouble. If I
left you with such an impression it is the fault of language barriers
and does not in any sense reflect on the intrinsic merit of the
idea. Advancing you the money is a financing technique which enables
you to purchase something you would not otherwise be able to afford.
It extends to you options which, were you to live solely within
your means, would not be available to you.”
The Diatoms danced about in agitation when Darwin finished translating
this. Some of Van Buren’s men adopted a defensive posture,
letting their hands rest on the stocks of their weapons. These little
parleys did not always end in an agreeable manner.
The head Diatom strode back and forth, gesturing
emphatically. Darwin translated.
“He asks why he should wish to buy something
he can not afford. If he can not afford it, plainly he is better
off not buying it. It goes against . . . something. I don’t
know what he’s saying. It would seem we have stumbled upon
a fiscal conservative, Director.” A ghost of a smile hovered
about Darwin’s lips.
Van Buren threw up his hands in frustration. “Fiscal
conservative? A financial illiterate is what he is. Doesn’t
understand a thing. The simplest notion and he takes it and turns
it on its head. What can you do with such imbeciles?”
“Do you wish me to translate that?”
Darwin inquired blandly.
Van Buren threw him a black look. “Here,”
he directed one of the men, “haul that box forward. Let’s
show him what we’ve got to trade. Maybe something in there
will catch his fancy. I think I know what’ll do it, too.”
The man dragged the box forward, grunting. Van
Buren opened it. He took out a large growth of fungus, held it up.
“The mushrooms of Apogee,” he began
his pitch. “Held to be a great delicacy by the epicures of
several worlds. There’s nothing in any cuisine, anywhere,
that compares with them. There is no diet they won’t either
complement or enhance. In addition they possess certain medicinal
qualities I’ll be happy to elaborate upon. And,” Van
Buren smiled, winked lewdly, “they are accounted by many as
the sole true aphrodisiac anywhere in the galaxy.” Van Buren
extended the mushroom toward the head Diatom.
Ibid hesitated, directed a subordinate to fetch
the mushroom. He broke off a hunk of the fungus, sniffed at it.
His face contorted wrathfully. “Shnaztek,” he pronounced
and cast it aside in disgust.
There was an ominous murmur from Van Buren’s
men. The mushroom of Apogee was revered amongst them, held in such
esteem that men were known to have killed to obtain it.
“Easy,” Van Buren cautioned. He turned
to the linguist. “What did he say?”
“An expletive,” Darwin said. “A
forceful and impolite expression of contempt. Roughly equivalent
to our ‘This is shit’.” The men stirred in agitation,
gripping their weapons.
“Stand down, Van Buren ordered them. “Stand
down, I said.” He shook his head. “They are savages,
savages. Imagine anyone reacting as they have. Obviously, nothing
we propose to offer will appeal to them. They haven’t obtained
a level of culture sufficient to appreciate anything more sophisticated
than nettles and fungo berries.” Darwin said nothing.
“There is one thing,” Van Buren reflected.
His eyes became dark, calculating. “Yes, we do have one item.
I think . . .” He shot a glance at Darwin. he did not entirely
trust the linguist. He was too much of an intellectual, his perspective
was always too broad and sympathetic. His allegiance did not lie
strictly with the success of the mission as it should but rather
with some vague concept that embraced qualities of compassion and
fairness. His training and disposition essentially left him unfit
for a venture of this nature. But, of course, they could not function
without him.
“You and you!” Van Buren pointed to
two of his men. “Go check on the cache of weapons. Bring me
a sixty angstrom laser pistol and a thermopile resonating detonator.
We’re going to up the ante here a little.”
Darwin looked at Van Buren, startled. “Wait just a minute,
Director. Unless I am mistaken, you are proposing to sell weapons
to the Diatoms. Is that correct?”
“I’m considering it,” Van Buren
said. “Why?”
“You’re familiar with the relevant
statutes,” Darwin upbraided him. “That’s in direct
contravention of several articles of the Reichenbach Charter.”
The laws governing the sale of weapons to non-human
cultures were strict and specific. They outlined in detail what
technology could be sold, under what circumstances, and to whom.
Given the enormous thrust of the weapons industry and the ready
market for it it was necessary to regulate with great exactitude
what was permissible and what was not. Van Buren, of course, was
well aware of this.
“I’m perhaps stretching the limits
of the law a little,” Van Buren admitted. “Sometimes
that’s necessary. Out here the law does not carry the same
force that it does in the more settled parts of the galaxy. In a
sense, it is we who determine what the law is – and what it
is not.”
Darwin shook his head. “The law, this law
in particular, is not something you can twist and alter at your
whim. You can not finesse it away and you can not plead special
circumstances. There are very compelling reasons for a law such
as this. Reasons of which you are well aware, Director.”
“If I am not mistaken Darwin, your field
of specialty is linguistics. I don’t recollect your being
assigned as legal advisor to this mission. In fact,” Van Buren’s
eyes shone with a hard light, “I am quite certain that function
falls within my purview and not your own. If I wish your counsel
on this matter I will invite it. I don’t appreciate it being
offered gratuitously.”
“I think you should know, Director,”
Darwin stared back at Van Buren with equal determination, “that
if you propose to go through with this my services will not be available.
You will be on your own.”
Van Buren’s face flooded with color. “I
have your contract,” he said harshly. “If you violate
the terms of that contract I shall have you expelled from the guild.”
“And if you violate the terms of the Charter
as you are proposing,” Darwin thrust his face forward, “I
shall have you hauled before a tribunal and indicted.” Van
Buren took a step forward, his fists clenched. The two men glared
at one another.
Ibid, forgotten all this while, directed a question
at Darwin. The linguist glanced up, startled. It took him a moment
to grasp what the Diatom had said.
“What is it? What does he want?” Van
Buren demanded.
“He wishes to know . . . The man smoking
the cigarette – he has never seen such a thing before.”
“No?” Van Buren looked at the Diatom
speculatively. “Hollis, step up here for
a minute. Let him see the cigarette.”
Hollis stepped forward. He held the cigarette
out so that the Diatom could examine it. The tip burned redly in
the oxygen-rich atmosphere and a thin curl of smoke drifted up into
the air. The Diatoms stared at it, fascinated.
“All right now Hollis, smoke it. Demonstrate
what it’s designed for.” Hollis took a drag on the cigarette,
embarrassed by the unaccustomed attention. “Not like that,
damn it!” Van Buren scowled. “This is a sales pitch!
Make like you are in an ad back home. You want to convey an image
of hipness and sophistication. The cigarette lends you an air of
distinction and glamour you would never be able to achieve on your
own.”
Hollis immediately adopted a Jimmy Dean-type swagger.
His lip curled in a defiant sneer. The cigarette dangled from the
corner of his mouth, letting everyone know that he was not to be
messed with, that he was one bad, hombre. The Diatoms clustered
around him in open admiration, making inarticulate grunts of approval.
“Do you see that, Darwin?” Van Buren
declared triumphantly. “It was only a matter of time before
we discovered a product that the Diatoms wanted. The first rule
of any good salesman is: create a demand for what you are selling.
It doesn’t matter whether your product is utterly frivolous
and unnecessary – make them want it. Thus, the cigarette.”
Hollis was totally into his role now as tobacco aficionado and when
he blew a perfect smoke ring followed by another, smaller one, that
barreled through the center of the first, the Diatoms actually began
to dance around him, shouting their enthusiasm.
“I’ll make a fortune,” Van Buren
exclaimed to no one in particular. “Excise taxes. Import duties,
a hundred percent mark up – Hell, why not two hundred percent?!
I’ll bleed them white. I’ll fleece them of every nickel
they ever owned and have them thanking me for the favor of doing
so.”
Darwin watched this spectacle with sad eyes, wishing
to disassociate himself from the entire proceeding. He had entered
into his career holding the highest of ideals, committed to spreading
understanding and fostering sympathy and good will amongst different
peoples. And what had he become – a pitchman for predatory
capitalism, a purveyor of poisons and filth. He resembled one of
those hucksters on late night Visiscreen, relentlessly hawking their
products, appealing to the basest, most puerile instincts of their
audience. And winning out – even as Van Buren was about to
win out. A tiny flame of rebellion kindled in Darwin’s soul.
When the negotiations resumed again he gave Van
Buren a reassuring smile and nod. He spoke in a confident, winning
fashion, employing all of his skills and knowledge of the Diatom
tongue. “In my culture, amongst my people, cigarettes are
renowned for two distinct features – nicotine and carcinogens.
Let me explain.”
Darwin set the match to the fuse and waited to
see what would happen.
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